


Turn it Around (And Then You'll Be Found)

by LivingProof



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Barnum Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love, Male Friendship, Phillip Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-25 14:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18576181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingProof/pseuds/LivingProof
Summary: Phillip Carlyle takes his job as PT Barnum's apprentice/partner/voice of reason/friend very seriously.Fortunately, PT Barnum takes his job as Phillip Carlyle's mentor/partner/bad influence/friend fairly seriously too.Or, a series of somewhat connected stories loosely based on the premise of five times Phillip helped Barnum out, and that time Barnum returned the favor. Though in most of these you'd be hard pressed to tell who is helping whom more. And maybe that's the point.Generally Gen, though if you'd care to read these as vaguely Barlyle I certainly won't stop you. (As if anyone could.)





	1. You Know the Richest Man Didn't Build His House Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure how I became so enraptured with this movie musical about a circus. Or why it took me so long to find. But how about we forget that I'm a little late to this party and embrace the fact I showed up at all. 
> 
> Main and chapter titles taken from the lovely song of the same name by The Head and the Heart .
> 
> ***
> 
> Barnum works on acceptance. Phillip works on Barnum.

Phineas Taylor Barnum isn't sure who the arrangement benefits more at first.

He has few accessible funds, the bank has repossessed his estate and most of its furnishings, and while his wife and daughters fortunately have a roof (Italian terracotta tiles, fired by Florentine craftsmen and shipped to America, at no small expense) over their heads at the Halletts', he would rather eat his hat (one of his favorites, deep charcoal with a fetching red silk lining, snatched from the stand in his former foyer before the bank's men came to take that too) than spend a night at that home, full of dour denizens and too many dark memories of being made to feel inadequate by virtue of his birth and station rather than any real, consequential failings (he finds that laughable now, when he has so many _true_ failings on which he can be judged).

So when his now-full partner raises the idea   ̶̶ mercifully citing only his own economically challenged situation due to his parent's disownment (asinine, appalling decision Barnum believes _that_ to be, he finds some joy in knowing Phillip is no longer beholden to those bitter people), and their shared desire to put all available resources toward rebuilding the circus   ̶̶ and tells Barnum it just makes sense for them to share rooms, at least until they can get things set up and maybe start borrowing off future profits, Barnum agrees.

He decides it's just a matter of practicality for him, and advantageous for the still convalescing Phillip.

He and Phillip find a small apartment on the upper stories of a worn tenement building close to the muddy tract of land near the docks they buy on the same day. It's not the best area of the city, nicer than some places Barnum has lived and far worse than anywhere Phillip has, but they're terribly busy   ̶̶ visiting the plot, the banks, merchants, and anywhere they might find new performers   ̶̶ and neither of them often goes anywhere without the other at this point so Barnum isn't too worried about safety.

And – Barnum learns as he gets reacquainted with the young man he so hastily left in charge of the circus, the performers, _his_ responsibilities – all that time spent navigating galas full of prying eyes and wicked hearts, and a tumultuous and demeaning relationship with a cold, often cruel, family imparted Phillip a steely core and nimble mind that can get him out of almost any rough spot.

He will grouse to anyone who will listen, though – to Phillip, most of all – about his new roommate's more aggravating habits: hats and scarves cast onto every available surface despite the _perfectly serviceable_ hat rack and cupboard next to the door; half-read books stacked on every other open spot, even the _stove_ ; the younger man's inability to drag himself out of bed until the dockworkers break for _lunch._ But he can never manage to convince anyone that there is any substance to his affected animosity.

Even if he could, anyone Barnum complains to figures Phillip himself must have far more irksome Barnum habits he could cite in return. Such as the showman leaving sheaves of paper full of ideas   ̶̶ costumes, set designs, musical numbers, new acts   ̶̶ _everywhere._ Sheets scattered on the sofa, tucked between the cushions, balled-up on the floor, to the point Phillip debates stopping up some of the draftier corners and windows with the documents. Or the _actual_ costumes Barnum sews and fills their small space with, new red ringmaster coats among the first articles he finishes. Or the inexhaustible man's tendency to stalk through their narrow, creaky hallway at all hours when he has a new idea, inspiration just as likely to strike him regardless of if the sun or the moon is holding court, until the downstairs neighbors start banging on the ceiling and Phillip comes out to complain about the noise, though he never really seems to mind when Barnum tugs him over to the small kitchen table to outline a new, outrageous plan.

Barnum misses his family, of course he does, misses seeing Charity's pillow-creased, drowsy face first thing in the morning, misses listening to the girls' soft snores after he has finished reading them to sleep. He stays busy with preparations for reopening the circus when he can, and in his quieter moments tells himself to be content with their time together on free days and with the fact that they are safe and warm.

He sometimes finds himself, while out in the city hastening from one meeting to another, pausing with a bittersweet smile to watch young children playing in the street: jacks or marbles or pat-a-cake or tag. Phillip will give him a minute (always a minute, never more) to reflect before taking his elbow to urge him along, asking the showman where he thinks their new show bills would be best placed and how they can streamline the hiring process for carpenters.

So Barnum still isn't sure who the arrangement benefits more. And, he is starting to think, he doesn't particularly care.

Some time after he comes to this realization, he, for a change, is awakened in the wee hours by the sound of Phillip pacing through the small apartment. He lies in bed until he hears Phillip retire and goes back to sleep himself.

He does the same the next night.

Barnum regrets _that_ decision after he spends the day nudging Phillip awake in meetings with canvas weavers and the Mayor's underlings, catching the younger man's elbow no fewer than three times to keep him from stumbling off the curb, or walking in front of an oncoming carriage.

When he hears his enervated partner prowling the halls again late that night, Barnum exasperatedly throws aside his coverlet and pads into the hallway. It takes him no time at all to find Phillip in the diminutive apartment; the younger man has opened the drawing room window and is taking deep, shuddering breaths of the cool air, temple pressed to the window casement.

Barnum treads forward slowly, groaning floorboards giving him away long before he reaches the window, and steps beside his partner. Phillip hasn't lit a lamp, and Barnum can barely make out the other man's features in the dim glow spilling in through the window.

He thinks of a dozen things to say: _taking after me now, see anything interesting out there, it will all work out, it has to work out, you should be sleeping, I dream of ashes too sometimes_ ; when he peers closer at Phillip's face, sees the sunken cheeks and distant eyes, he gives voice to none of them. Instead, he rests his hands on the window sill and leans down, in, until his arm is braced against Phillip's from shoulder to elbow. Barnum stays there for some time, catching the faint taste of salt and the sounds of distant ships on the breeze, watching the few passersby – sailors arriving to the city at night or roustabouts on the late shift – until he feels Phillip's breath even out.

As the dark sky lightens with the first, faintest streaks of gray and blue he pulls Phillip to the couch, sets himself into the nearby armchair, and drops the closest stack of papers onto the table between them, eager to hear if Phillip has any ideas about securing a new provider for animal feed.

Mercifully, they have a day devoid of meeting or appointments, so Barnum is content to shuffle through the pages of proposals and half-formed plans (no small number of which are Phillip's, he'd like to note), occasionally getting his partner's input as the younger man spends much of the day dozing.

And the next time he hears Phillip up in the middle of the night, some days later, he wastes no time heading to the drawing room and lighting a lamp as Phillip turns from his place by the window. Barnum drops himself to the sofa after grabbing a few papers, and pats the spot next to him until the other man takes a seat.

Dawn this time finds them sleeping, Phillip's head heavy on Barnum's shoulder, the showman's own head tipped back onto the cushions, piece of paper they spent most of the dark hours quibbling over resting precariously on Barnum's leg. It's a detailed drawing, pencil strokes in Barnum's sure hand depicting an oblong tent, grandstands filling the area from the canvas walls to the center, where space is left for not one, or even two, but three circus rings.

PT Barnum wasn't sure who the arrangement benefited more at first. But months later, as he and Phillip finally stand, sawdust spiraling in the sunlight around them, in the middle of their new tent, their new _home_ , he can't recall caring at all.


	2. All the Versions of Feelings You Saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip has a very Barnum idea. Barnum just has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many wonderful gala!fics up here I almost hesitated to write another one. Hopefully there's enough daylight between this and others to still be enjoyable. And if not, can we all agree that imitation is the highest form of praise?
> 
> Very oblique mention of alcohol abuse.

Phineas Taylor Barnum genuinely fears very few things in this life, or at least he generally finds a way to make the things he might fear serve him instead.

 

Lions with sharp claws and tigers with sinister teeth? Teach them to jump through hoops. Crowds of thousands cheering and jeering as he enters center ring? Encourage them to stomp and sing alongside him. The specter of financial ruin? A great excuse to put your no-longer junior partner in charge of bookkeeping for the circus. Death? Well they say it's one of life's inevitabilities, but PT Barnum is fairly confident that if an alternative can be found, he is just the man to do it.

 

“Where other people see fear, Phillip, I see _opportunity!_ ” He will proclaim, pretending not to hear the response, sotto voce, “But what if that _opportunity_ is an oncoming train?”

 

So no, PT Barnum does not fear many things, but this, _this_ he dreads with almost every fiber of his being: an entire night in the company of the swells whose approbation he so desperately craved not too long ago, foremost among them Mr. and Mrs. Hallett, of whom he has seen more than enough lately, thank you very much, particularly since he has begrudgingly allowed them into his daughters' lives in return for providing them and his wife shelter for a time following his many disastrous decisions after meeting Miss Lind in London.

 

“But PT,” his wickedly wonderful and perfectly patient wife tells him a week ago when he voices his strong disinclination to attend tonight's event, “it's a benefit for charity.” And when he grins lasciviously and replies, “I can think of much better ways to _benefit_ Charity,”she rolls her eyes and continues, “My parents will be there, and you know I want to try to spend more time with them, I didn't see them for so long, and it's good for the girls to have more support in their lives, especially with everything Caroline's going through with those wretched little primadonnas at her ballet school...”

 

 _You, and me, and the circus, Lettie and the Wheelers and Phillip,_ _that's all the support she needs..._ he wants to respond, but doesn't, so he acquiesces as his darling, devious wife knows he will at any mention of the well-being of his children.

 

They leave Caroline and Helen in the care of their dear neighbor Mrs. Astley, widowed and made childless by the war some years ago and always willing to watch “those two little angels, and Caroline _such_ a talented dancer, my Adam had just the same kind of verve at her age, so glad you're encouraging her, never mind this fairer sex nonsense, tell me what's fair about birthing and raising and burying three beautiful boys...” and Barnum makes a beeline for the nearest server with champagne the moment he and Charity arrive at the event.

 

Barnum does his level best to shoulder his share of the social burden as he and Charity make the rounds, losing track of his wife's whereabouts somewhere in the middle of Mr. Cooke's obviously inflated stories of game hunting “such savage beasts as they have on the dark continent,” and refrains from telling the older gentleman, if he can be called such, that it's a shame to kill such magnificent, intelligent animals, who are perfectly capable of learning the most elaborate tricks and are at any rate far better company and conversationalists than most of the people in this room.

 

He bites his tongue when Mr. and Mrs. Sells rave about the “remarkably talented singer, Miss Lind, and a true humanitarian” and how they were “just blessed to have had the opportunity to hear her sing while visiting Peter's cousins in our nation's capital,” and “such a shame she cut her tour short, but I read she wants to perform again, perhaps more engagements are in her future...” because as painful as _that_ episode in poor judgment was and still is for him, he cannot deny Miss Lind's obvious gifts or her charitable impulses, and he certainly can't condemn her for _her_ lapse in judgment when he is so clearly guilty of worse.

 

He even keeps his composure and merely raises an eyebrow when Mrs. Forepaugh steals away from her far too old husband to sidle up far too closely to his side, telling him in a low voice “how _very sorry_ I am about just how cruel the papers have been” and “how _unnecessarily prurient_ those stories about you and Miss Lind were,” and “now there just _can't_ be _any_ truth to them or what they say about _you_ and your circus and _your performers_ especially that _athletic_ young man with all the _tattoos_ , are they really over his _entire_ body...” and is happy for possibly the first time in his life to see Mr. Hallett and the excuse his father-in-law provides him to flee from the nattering socialite.

 

“Phineas,” The saturnine man greets him flatly as Barnum approaches with two champagne flutes.

 

“Mr. Hallett,” Barnum replies, briefly considering taking a page from his partner's book and downing both glasses before he reluctantly hands one over. He definitely regrets not following Phillip's imprudent example as the conversation moves at a glacial pace from the latest news of the circus “Now in a tent!” and “Double the elephants!” and “No, still no clowns,” to the reason for tonight's event: “Isn't it important to appreciate the sacrifice of our honored war dead?” and “Indeed!” and “So very, truly necessary,” before Mr. Hallett's next question jolts him from his champagne and monotony-induced stupor.

 

“And...your business partner?” Mr. Hallett asks.

 

“Mr. Carlyle? Well, I'm certain he appreciates the sacrifices that have been made...”

 

“No, he's here?” Mr. Hallett asks again.

 

“Oh, no, he's doubtless still at the circus, I can rarely tear him away from his work...” _And what I wouldn't give to be there with him right now,_ he adds silently.

 

“No, he's _here_.” Not a question this time, as Barnum looks over his shoulder to see his harried partner approach, the younger man turning heads and raising eyebrows as he winds through the crowd, utterly under-dressed for the occasion.

 

“PT, thank heavens, I'm so glad I found you,” Philip greets Barnum without preamble, and nods at Charity's father. “So sorry to pull you away, but we have an issue.”

 

“An issue?” Barnum asks.

 

“At the circus,” Phillip clarifies.

 

“At the circus,” Barnum parrots dumbly, heart hanging in his throat for a moment before Phillip continues.

 

“That business with the Boston Winthrops.” Phillip is standing with his back mostly to Charity's father, so only Barnum can see the wicked smile that starts to dance at the edges of the younger man's mouth.

 

“That business with the Boston Winth-”

 

“Well yes, as you know they've expressed a great deal of interest in investing in the show. We've been trying to set up a meeting with their executor for months.”

 

“Months.” Barnum echos.

 

“Yes, and I've just received word he's passing through the city tonight, and he's hoping for the chance to speak with you.”

 

“With me.”

 

“And I know you have every confidence in the show, and the performers, and me, but really we can't miss this opportunity to impress him with the man whose name is on the building, can we?”

 

“The building? Phineas, I thought you said the show had moved to a tent...” Charity's father interjects.

 

“Quite right, Phillip, we can't miss this opportunity! My sincerest apologies, Mr. Hallett, if you'll please excuse me...” Barnum nods at his father-in-law as he turns away, scanning the room to find his wife conversing with her mother and a few older women.

 

“I...well...yes...of course, but...”

 

“Wonderful to see you as always, Mr. Hallett,” Phillip bids his farewell as Barnum wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him across the room to the gaggle of women hiding gossip and chiding remarks behind elegant evening gloves and embroidered fans.

 

“Charity, darling, I'm so sorry but Phillip and I must run off,” Barnum solemnly intones as he reaches his wife and her companions.

 

“Oh, hello Phillip.” Barnum huffs quietly as the mother of his children smiles sweetly at Phillip and pecks him on the cheek, while barely sparing her husband a glance. “What's this about then?” She asks, still looking at the decidedly shorter member of their partnership.

 

“There's an issue.” Barnum glances between the love of his life and the man he might, under duress, call his best friend, suddenly suspicious of their shared smiles.

 

“An issue,” Phillip echos helpfully.

 

“At the circus.”

 

“At the circus,” Phillip confirms with a vigorous nod.

 

“That business with the Boston Winthrops.”

 

“That business with the Bos-”

 

“Yes, thank you both, I understand,” Charity gets her turn to look between the two men before dismissing them with a nod. “Well, best of luck dear, I'll have my parents drop me off on their way home.” She graces Phillip with a smile again and an affectionate “Good night, Phillip,” before turning back to her conversing companions.

 

Barnum manages to hold his tongue until he and Phillip have walked far enough from the patrons spilling out onto the venue's steps to evade any gossip-mongering eavesdroppers. When they reach the street, he digs an elbow into Phillip's side.

 

“The Boston Winthrops?” He asks his younger partner quizzically.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I didn't know there _were_ any Boston Winthrops.”

 

“Well, you do now.”

 

“And I suspect that these Boston Winthrops must share their southern brethren's disdain for our circus, and our performers, and anything at all that might bring the most minute modicum of light and love into their lives.”

 

“I suspect so, PT.”

 

“So you decided to interrupt my captivating conversation with my dear wife's father with a manufactured crisis involving a well-moneyed family that has no interest in putting any of that money into our show?”

 

“The _New York_ Winthrops are well-moneyed. I am fairly certain the _Boston_ Winthrops could buy everything the New York Winthrops own and still have enough money to open their own circus. Several circuses, perhaps. Maybe a railroad too, for good measure.”

 

“A railroad.” Barnum snorts derisively.

 

“Come now, all this discussion of wealth is far too gauche for such esteemed gentlemen as ourselves.” Phillip claps a hand briefly on Barnum's shoulder before continuing, “Besides, you looked miserable trying to muster enthusiasm for a garish monument that will doubtless never be built. Mr. Rice and Mrs. Ducrow can't agree on what to serve at luncheon, let alone how to hire an artist. Or select a site. Or procure the necessary materials.”

 

“And Mr. Rice and Mrs. Ducrow are?”

 

“The chairs of The Society to Benefit and Honor Heroes of the War of the Rebellion? The hosts of the benefit you just left? Heaven's sake PT, you're the one who was actually invited!”

 

“I'm sure your invitation was simply lost in the post, Phillip.”

 

“Right. And now your father-in-law thinks you have business with a family wealthy enough to buy out the B&O, is that so terrible? Besides, I was doing you a favor getting you out of there.”

 

“I will certainly concede that last point, but this esteemed gentleman wonders what happens should the Halletts ask their good friends the New York Winthrops about the Boston Winthrops' interest in our circus.”

 

“Oh, no need to worry about that. The Winthrop families haven't been on speaking terms in years, though I daresay they don't care to publicly acknowledge the rift.”

 

“And what are all these swells on the outs about? Someone serve the wrong wine with the fish course again?”

 

“Please. Any Winthrop in these United States would disembowel themselves before permitting such a miscarriage of decorum. No, from what I understand, one of the Boston daughters ran away with a groom in the employ of the New York family.”

 

Though Barnum will never admit it, he finds a perverse pleasure in Phillip's joy at sharing this salacious bit of gossip, one of the vanishingly few remnants he still carries of his former life.

 

Barnum's cheerful thoughts are quickly stymied by the darker look that steals its way across Phillip's features as the younger man slows his pace and amends. “Or perhaps it was one of the New York daughters who eloped?”

 

Now Phillip stops walking entirely, casting his eyes at passing carriages, streetlights, darkened windows, anywhere but Barnum. “I confess I'm not entirely sure. I was...ah...quite in my cups at the time. Quite in my cups most of the time...at the time.”

 

Barnum casts an appraising look at the younger man, hesitates to let either of them stray farther down these dark trails, but decides he owes it to Phillip after tonight. _After everything._

 

“Was it really that bad for you?” He inquires, voice the softest and most sincere it has been this entire evening.

 

And Barnum is rewarded with an answer as bitterly, brutally honest and forthcoming as Phillip has ever been. “Yes.”

 

A beat as Barnum gathers his thoughts. “Is it better now?” He asks, mostly failing to keep the desperation from his voice.

 

“...Yes. I...yes. Most days.” Phillip pauses. “Thank you for that.”

 

“You did that yourself. But...you're welcome.” Barnum steps tentatively into untrod territory, “And...on the days that it isn't better...” He can't quite bring himself to finish the question, isn't entirely sure what he's asking.

 

“I have the circus now.” Phillip finally meets his eyes.

 

“Yes. And...you have me.” Barnum surprises himself with that absolute truth, devoid of his usual dissembling, and the vehemence with which he says it. But he isn't surprised when Phillip flounders about for a reply for a few moments before simply smiling shyly and nodding.

 

They stand together, apart, a minute before Barnum clears his throat, breaking the silent spell as he places a hand on the younger man's back to propel him forward, “Well, thank you for the rescue. Not sure what I'll tell Charity, though. And how did you know where – ”

 

“Oh, thank Charity for that.” Phillip's smile widens at Barnum's confusion, voice returning as they move to safer, more familiar ground. “She mentioned you would be in need of saving tonight, told me where you would be, suggested it would be a good opportunity for me to work on my 'Barnum Humbug'.”

 

“Marvelous woman. I have no idea what I did to deserve her.”

 

“That makes two of us.”

 

“Well now.” He scowls, no heat behind it, expression quickly overtaken by a classic Barnum smirk. “Tell me, Mr. Carlyle, have you plans for the rest of the evening?”

 

“Other than keeping you out of trouble? No, I thought I might go back to the office and...why are you smiling like that?”

 

“Me, trouble? I'm deeply disappointed by your lack of faith in my exceptional judgment.” _And eternally grateful that you're still here in spite of it,_ he doesn't add.

 

“Exceptional jud –”

 

“Yes. I did hire you, after all.” The closest he can get to giving voice to his thoughts. “And how quickly you forget my talent for discovering the novel! The scintillating! Do I daresay even the _sensational_?”

 

“You do. You did. You will. Repeatedly.”

 

“Astute observer, you.” Barnum intones flatly. “Now, I've just read that Mr. Olmsted has recently completed the relocation to his park of an extraordinary display from last year's Exposition in Philadelphia!” His hands trace the vision in the air. “An entirely accurate, delightfully detailed, full scale Swedish winter cottage straight from the dark forests of Scandinavia."

 

“Dark forests of...you want to go all the way to the Central Park. At night. To see a cottage?”

 

“A delightfully detailed Swedish winter cottage.”

 

“Fine, but...Swedish?”

 

“Yes, well, we mustn't judge an entire country's worth on our experience with a single export.” Silence as Phillip gives him a knowing look. “And I'll buy you a hot chocolate from one of the carts on the way.”

 

“PT, when you offer to buy someone a drink it _is_ customary to actually pay for it yourself. How unusual that would be...”

 

“How fortuitous then that I also have a flair for finding the unusual!” He grins toothily at Phillip's exasperated expression.

 

Barnum interrupts their companionable silence after a few minutes of walking, “Now, if they can move a Swedish cottage to an American park, we can certainly put a miniature village in our tent...”

 

“PT...”

 

“I did say miniature. Charles-sized.” Barnum snaps his fingers, and Phillip can see the gears turning behind the showman's eyes. “Napoleon's Fontainebleau! The Palace, at the very least!”

 

“Well, just a miniature of the Palace...”

 

“Right. Just the Palace. Not the whole village.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Although...once we get a bigger tent...”

 

“PT!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The War of Rebellion' is how many historians and a number of war monuments referred to the American Civil War during and shortly after the war, though I can't say if there was ever a Society to Benefit and Honor its Heroes. 
> 
> The B&O is the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, the oldest railroad in the US. Its first locomotive was named 'Tom Thumb.' 
> 
> Frederick Law Olmsted was a landscape architect who helped design dozens of parks and public spaces in the US, including Central Park, which was apparently called The Central Park in its early years. I don't know when it lost the definite article. 
> 
> The Swedish cottage does exist! It was Sweden's entry to the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia in 1876 before Olmsted had it moved and reconstructed in Central Park. It's still there, and is now home to a Marionette Theatre. 
> 
> Fontainebleau is also a real place. The Palace is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. More than a few interesting things happened there, including Napoleon's abdication. 
> 
> Great work if you made it through all that. Thanks for indulging me!


	3. Nobody Blocking Your Way, Taking You Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnum sings a sad song. Phillip takes it and makes it better.

Phineas Taylor Barnum's day does not start off promisingly.

 

It begins going downhill when Caroline announces at the breakfast table in a voice choked with tears that she will “never, _never_ , go back to her ballet lessons again, not after Natalie and Margaret and Eliza said those _terrible_ things about me being a _beastly Barnum_ , just when I finally thought we could be _friends_ and...”

 

And that is the moment when Helen, standing up on her chair to reach across the table for another piece of bread, bumps her elbow into the hot kettle of coffee Charity has just put down. She grabs her arm with a shriek as the scalding liquid spills everywhere, sloshing over the edge of the table onto Barnum's shirt and trousers.

 

Barnum jumps up, swearing and knocking his chair to the floor as Charity leaps from her own seat to clutch at Helen's arm, tears already pooling in the young girl's eyes, just as Caroline looks between her younger, bawling sister and cursing father and inevitably starts weeping herself.

 

Barnum, stunned by this rapid turn of events, can only take in the chaotic tableau, ears aching from the volume of two young girls crying and Charity doing her best to be heard over the noise asking Helen to “please sit still” and “let me see.”

 

He shakes out of his stupor, striding over to the sideboard to gather a few napkins and a pitcher of water before returning to the table next to Helen and Charity, who has finally managed to get a hold of her daughter's arm. Charity looks up as Barnum approaches, announcing “It doesn't look too bad,” before getting a closer look at her husband to observe, blandly, “Phineas, you have coffee all over yourself...”

 

Charity turns away to continue soothing her child before she can see her husband's glower. Barnum just sighs and uses one of the napkins to wipe away the tears on Caroline's face. “Sweetheart,” he tells her, “everything is fine, Helen is fine,” and “you have too much talent to stop dancing now,” concluding, over her protestations, “We can talk more about this tonight.”

 

Caroline, shifting personas from a child to a young lady at the drop of a hat as she has been increasingly wont to do lately, primly takes the napkin from her father's hand to delicately dab at her cheeks and eyes. Barnum waits until she meets his gaze and nods before he turns to Charity and his youngest daughter, whose cries have mercifully stopped.

 

Charity looks up, tells him, “Helen's fine. More startled than anything else.”

 

Helen nods a confirmation before asking her father, “Is it that hot when the fire-breathers do their tricks?” and, just starting to develop her father's keen ability to take advantage of any situation, “Does this mean I can come to the circus with you instead of going to my lessons, Daddy?”

 

Barnum raises an eyebrow, replying “I think it's a little hotter than that, darling, but they're very good at what they do,” continuing, “Your studies are important. You need to go to your lessons.”

 

“But I don't want to go! You didn't!” Helen implores.

 

“Get ready for school, Helen,” Barnum says sharply. Then, as his youngest daughter's lower lip begins to quiver again, he relents, “I'll take you and your sister to the circus this weekend.”

 

“Can I get lessons from the fire-breathers?” Helen asks guilelessly.

 

Barnum and Charity share a helpless look over Helen's head. “No, darling, but I'm sure WD and Anne would love to help you with your cartwheels,” Charity responds as she hustles the girls from the dining room to get them ready for their classes.

 

Barnum does his best to mop up the mess before traipsing wearily to their bedroom to replace his sodden clothing, muttering, “One of my favorite shirts, too,” and then, as he fastens his suspenders, “ _Beastly Barnum_?"

 

So PT Barnum's day isn't terribly promising even before he gets out the door. He picks up a copy of _The Herald_ on his way to the circus, and it only gets worse.

 

***

 

Barnum barely registers Phillip's unexpectedly early presence in their shared office when he stomps in, eyes barely leaving Mr. Bennett's newest article as he slams the door behind him and discards his hat, coat, and scarf on the way to his desk.

 

“Good morning, PT,” Phillip dares to disturb Barnum's perusal of the paper.

 

Barnum glances up briefly to see his partner sitting at his desk, mutters, “Oh, you're here.” Another look. “Early.” His eyes come up from the paper a third time. “Did you sleep here again?”

 

“Ah...what are you reading?” Phillip deflects, Barnum's deep distraction allowing him to dodge the nagging commentary that would normally be inevitable: _Man does not live by peanuts alone, Phillip!_

 

“It's nothing,” Barnum replies, looking up at his partner again at the snort and raised eyebrows he gets in return. He sighs, relents, and tosses the paper in front of Phillip. He leans against his desk (varnished Virginia hickory, salvaged years and years ago from the home of Washington himself, Barnum will tell anyone who will listen, though he never mentions _which_ Washington), crosses his arms, and watches the other man pick up the paper.

 

“Lakota Sioux Chief Crazy Horse, Compatriots, Surrender to Army in Nebraska,” Phillip recites, looking up at Barnum quizzically. Barnum huffs and motions for Phillip to look below the fold.

 

“Russian Troops Continue Advance into Ottoman Territory?” Phillip asks. Barnum huffs again.

 

“Empire of Japan Refuses Negotiations with Satasuma Rebels,” the younger man ventures. Barnum just scowls this time.

 

“Lind Mania Reignites.” Phillip reads at last. “Oh,” all he says as he looks up at Barnum for a moment before returning to the article, reading aloud the highlights.

 

“The Swedish sweetheart who stole our hearts is set to launch her new tour in Philadelphia...engagements planned for much of the eastern seaboard...tickets in Toronto completely snapped up mere minutes after becoming available...benefiting not only free schools in her native home but additionally houses of worship in this land which would like nothing so much as to call her its own...”

 

He finishes the rest of the article silently under Barnum's stare, then carefully refolds the paper and places it down on his desk as he looks up at the taller man.

 

“So, she's going on tour again, then.” Barnum nods at him.

 

“She is likely to come through New York at some point.” Barnum says nothing.

 

“And she's giving her profits to charity again.”

 

“Philanthropic woman, Miss Lind.” Barnum grinds out.

 

“This is what's got you so upset?” Phillip flips over the paper to glance at the article again. “Bennett didn't even say anything about you.”

 

“Bennett didn't have to say anything about me, Phillip, everyone who can read knows what happened.”

 

“But there are plenty of people who can't read, PT, so...” Phillip trails off as Barnum glares at him. “Right.”

 

They sit in silence for a minute, Barnum's gaze shooting daggers into the offending paper in Phillip's hands, Phillip eyeing Barnum.

 

“Well,” Phillip says, stops.

 

“Well,” he tries again, luck no better this time.

 

“Wait,” he starts, third time a charm, “are you upset that Bennett _didn't_ mention you?”

 

Barnum responds by stalking over and yanking the paper from Phillip's grip to throw it forcefully into the nearby wastebasket.

 

“Do you...” Phillip swallows, “want to...talk...about...it?” He finishes lamely.

 

“No.” Barnum's typical loquacity is nowhere to be found.

 

“Oh.” Phillip visibly steels himself before he says, “But you are upset.”

 

“No Phillip, whatever gave you that impression? Have you been reading up on the human psyche while I wasn't paying attention?” He scoffs, “Why would I possibly be upset? It's not as though my terrific mishandling of that situation led to financial ruin, drove my wife from the home and life I promised her.”

 

Barnum charges ahead as Phillip opens his mouth. “No, I didn't bring hardship to my family, give my daughters one more thing to worry about, one more reason to dread having to say their last name, God forbid anyone know they're the children of the _illustrious_ PT Barnum, philanderer and fool!

 

“Why would _I_ be bothered by a reminder of the moral turpitude and utter _stupidity_ that nearly completely destroyed the circus, nearly got you...”

 

Barnum stops and takes in a shuddering breath, shocked at how he's managed to work himself up so quickly. He flashes back to that morning, thinks of Helen going from excited to distraught in the blink of an eye, and marvels disgustedly at his inability to regulate his emotions any better than a hurt child.

 

“PT,” Phillip injects, as serious and fierce as Barnum has ever heard him, “a group of imbeciles with too little self-respect, too much hate, and a kerosene lantern are why the circus was nearly destroyed and I was nearly _killed_.” He finishes Barnum's sentence, then continues in a softer voice, “And you and I are both well aware why it was only 'nearly'.”

 

Barnum sags against his desk and focuses on calming his ragged breathing until he can speak again. “Christ, Phillip, I'm sorry,” he says weakly as he scrubs a hand over his face. “Today has been...I've been...” _Beastly_ “...not myself.”

 

“I've noticed,” Phillip replies dryly. He gives Barnum a minute to compose himself before noting, “Though I think I'm most concerned that in all this you haven't said one disparaging remark about Mr. Bennett.”

 

Barnum just sighs tiredly before admitting, “Bennett's not that bad.”

 

At this Phillip finally gets up from his desk, striding over to Barnum. He reaches out to palm the taller man's forehead as he asks, “Good God PT, are you ill?”

 

Barnum grouchily knocks his hand aside and grumbles, “No, but aren't you hilarious.”

 

Phillip peers closely at him for a moment before he turns to collect his hat, scarf, and coat, and Barnum wants to apologize again before the younger man rightfully leaves him to wallow in his misery. He can't find the words, however, before Phillip is standing before him with Barnum's own garments, exhorting, “Come on then. I've something to show you.”

 

Barnum looks at him dumbly as Phillip sets the hat atop Barnum's head and drapes the scarf around the showman's neck, finds his voice as he slips into the coat Phillip holds open for him. “What?”

 

“I was planning to wait a day or two, ensure it's completely finished, but I think it's just what you need today.”

 

“And _it_ is...?”

 

Phillip just smiles widely at Barnum before grabbing his elbow to pull him out of their office, away from the circus, and into the city.

 

***

 

 _It_ is the most outrageous, ostentatious, garishly obscene thing Barnum has ever seen. He tells Phillip such.

 

“This is the most outrageous, ostentatious, garishly obscene thing I have ever seen, Mr. Carlyle.”

 

“Well, now, there is no need to exaggerate, Mr. Barnum.”

 

“Phillip, I think this is larger than most of the homes I've lived in.”

 

“Oh, it's definitely larger than most of the homes you've lived in.”

 

“It's an affront to decency, decorum. A spectacle any morally upstanding citizen would surely shudder to behold. It's...it's...”

 

“Yes, PT?”

 

“Oh, Phillip, it's simply... _sensational_.”

 

 _It_ is the largest bit of ballyhoo New York City has seen in recent memory. A wooden billboard at street level – though that word doesn't do it justice – dozens of feet tall and even wider. “PT Barnum's Greatest Show on Earth” the text at top screams. Every inch is covered in bright paint, detailing extraordinary scenes from the circus: the tent itself; the lions, tigers, and elephants; most of the performers; every set and prop they've ever used (and some they haven't); and at the center, resplendent in a long, obscenely red coat, is Barnum himself in profile, hat in one hand and cane in the other, directing the cacophony.

 

A sizable crowd gawks at the monstrosity, some intrepid souls daring enough to pass through the arches that have been cut into the bottom for just that purpose. A number of food carts are set up nearby, vendors having cottoned on to an excellent business opportunity.

 

Barnum simply marvels at the spectacle for a long time before turning to Phillip. “What...why...how?”

 

“Yes, PT?” Phillip asks again, beaming smugly.

 

“How...how did you even get permission to put this up here? This is a busy street!”

 

“I do still have some connections among the swells, PT.” Phillip tilts his head to the side. “But we may be seeing an unusually large number of gentlemen from the Mayor's Office expecting free tickets in the future.”

 

“How could you arrange all this without me noticing?”

 

“Remember all those meetings with the Metropolitan Board of Health you refused to attend?”

 

“You said that was to get the proper permits for the animals!”

 

“It was, but it never struck you as odd that it took most of the day? Our city's government is wildly inefficient, but it isn't _that_ bad!”

 

“Could've fooled me.”

 

“As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I did!”

 

“You incorrigible little...” Barnum shakes his head and throws an arm around Phillip's shoulders as they approach to get a better look. “Come along. I want to see how they did with my likeness up close. You did give them a detailed photograph? I hope they got my mole right...”

 

“You don't have a mo–”

 

“And there's Lettie! She looks beautiful. And Charles on his horse!” Barnum exclaims, better able to make out the painted figure of his first hire as they draw closer. “Oh, Anne and WD too...and Constantine's tattoos look marvelous! And all the animals...”

 

“Barnum's beasts!” Phillip agrees.

 

“What did you say?” PT turns sharply.

 

“Oh, just something I heard...” Phillip's eyes widen at Barnum's expression. “I...but...we don't have to...forget I said anything...”

 

“No,” Barnum says, starting to smile, “ _Barnum's beasts_. I like that.” He grins at Phillip before looking back at the billboard. “But I don't see you, Phillip.”

 

“No, you do not.”

 

“Whyever not?”

 

“I prefer to think of myself as the silent partner in this arrangement.”

 

“Well for a silent partner, you can be quite loud in the right circumstances.” Barnum is deliriously pleased at the blush that steals across his partner's face, decides to twist the knife a little deeper. “No matter, we'll be sure to put you on the next one.”

 

“The next one? PT–”

 

“Yes, one is good, but a dozen would be even better.” Phillip can't even muster a response, just rolls his eyes at Barnum.

 

“Maybe we can get one on the street corner near _The Herald_ building.” Barnum smiles from ear to ear, eyes crinkling at the edges as he continues, “Ideally facing the window in Mr. Bennett's office.” And at that Phillip just laughs uproariously, mirth spreading to Barnum until they have to lean against each other to stay upright, wonderfully oblivious to the concerned stares and unkind mutterings of passersby, a few of whom pause to look between Barnum's face and the blinding, brightly colored display a few yards away.

 

PT Barnum's day did not start off promisingly, but at least, he decides, looking between his partner, now laughing so hard he's nearly weeping, and the massive advertisement – two flamboyantly _sensational_ gifts with which life has blessed him – a start like that means a day can only get better.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by pictures of advertisements during the heyday of the circus, which were totally gonzo. Hopefully someone had something like this.
> 
> All those headlines (except the last) came from real events. I don't know if they would have all been reported in the same paper. Maybe The Herald's readers are just exceptionally well-informed. 
> 
> The Metropolitan Board of Health did exist – the first of its kind in the US, though I'm not sure if the licensing of circus animals would have fallen under its aegis (that would have been some fun paperwork to fill out).


	4. Stand Proud, Stand Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnum considers his limits as a parent. Phillip steals the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A familiar idea in this fandom, but I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Everything I know about ballet and the French language I learned from barre class. Apologies for any mistakes.
> 
> Fluffity fluffing fluff

Phineas Taylor Barnum knows he put a lot on the line – his money, his show, his family's well-being, his reputation (a currency with a wildly variable value) – in his attempts to gain the approval and respect of the elite of New York (and Philadelphia, and Boston, and Cincinnati...).

 

For the life of him, at this particular moment he cannot fathom why.

 

He knows why he's here tonight. As dull as the company around him is, as suffocating as they all are – _Yes, Phillip, you were right about that,_ he thinks _–_ there are few things in his life more spectacular than watching his elder daughter in her rightful place at center stage as she dances, brisé and contretemps and sissonne, a picture of both elegance and childish exuberance.

 

But the upper crust of this city – bound and determined to hold onto their rarefied status by walking on the backs of others and punching down at those who dare dream of reaching up to their exalted echelon – cannot hold the line on their own forever. Naturally, they impart in their children the need to believe themselves better than anyone else, teach them to lift themselves up by tearing others down.

 

After the dancing concludes, he is standing next to Charity and Helen in the atrium while Caroline tries to slink her way into the circle formed by the other dancers. Tall enough to peer over the heads of the snobs surrounding him (and isn't there a metaphor in that somewhere) he can see Caroline's face fall from across the room, can see the snide looks Natalie exchanges with her henchwomen (he can never remember most of their names, chalks it up to their matching outfits and similar hairstyles and shared disdain for anyone and anything just a little bit different).

 

All he can do, all he would do, for his girls, and he has never figured out how to protect them from this. _Maybe you don't have to_ , Charity would tell him, but he's never excelled at recognizing his limitations.

 

So he sighs, despondent, and braces himself for another round of _I'll never go back_ and _it's too late_ and _I'll never belong,_ for another round of holding his tongue at that last, still not sure how to tell her after all this time that _that_ isn't a sentiment that necessarily goes away with age, or experience, or even a few good people telling you _You already do_.

 

But all that is a problem for the future, and right now he's just trying to think of a way to get out of this situation with a minimum of tears and hair pulling. He's steeling himself to wade into the sea of adolescent animosity when he sees the gaggle of girls startle and stare at something behind him. He peers to the side just as the object in question saunters past with nary a glance in his direction.

 

He has a second to take in the image of his business partner, resplendent in an impeccably pressed dark coat and crisply tailored trousers, matching ultramarine hat and ascot framing his bright eyes perfectly. But the pièce de résistance of that vision cutting a swath through the room is the monstrously large, overflowing bouquet of flowers, bright crimson and gold (a combination so delightful Barnum is instantly jealous he's not carrying it) the young man wields in front of him.

 

Phillip strides straight as an arrow towards the young ballerinas, eyes only for Caroline, so Barnum wonders if he misses the looks he's getting from the rest of the room: from all the dancers, of course, but also most of their mothers, and, Barnum gleefully observes, not a few of their fathers.

 

The young man reaches Caroline, gallantly doffing his hat to her and tucking it under one arm before taking the girl's hand in his own to kiss the backs of her fingers. “Incroyable, ma chère!” he tells her as he hands over the ostentatious bouquet while the other dancers gape.

 

Caroline beams as she holds the flowers in both hands, the bundle nearly as big as she is. The other girls jostle around her jealously and Phillip nods to them before making his way over to Barnum.

 

“Phillip!” Helen bounces as he approaches. “Those flowers are sooo pretty!” She glances covetously at her older sister.

 

“They are pretty, aren't they?” He agrees as he kneels in front of her. “You know what else is pretty?” He asks, pulling a small parcel from a coat pocket.

 

“Chocolates!” Helen exclaims as she plucks the box from her favorite candy store out of Phillip's outstretched hand.

 

“I was going to say _you_ , but that's fine too, I suppose...” He grins as he gets to his feet and finally acknowledges Barnum and Charity.

 

“Helen, what do you say?” Charity asks as she greets Phillip with a kiss on the cheek.

 

“Can I eat them now? All of them?” Helen asks breathlessly.

 

Barnum chortles, decides to leave that decision in Charity's capable hands as she mutters “No, dear, 'thank you' was the appropriate answer...just like your father...” He pulls Phillip toward the closest exit, sparing a last glance at Caroline who is now holding court among the young ballerinas, crushing the flowers to her chest as she regales the other girls with an apparently fascinating story.

 

Barnum walks Phillip outside, finding a secluded corner of the connecting terrace. He shoots the younger man a glare, remarks, “Phillip, sometimes I think my children like you more than they like me,” instantly regretting the obvious opening he's just given his partner.

 

“Hmm yes, Charity has given them impeccable taste, it's true.” Phillip nods sagely.

 

“Mr. Carlyle, you remain incorrigible,” Barnum grumbles.

 

Phillip smiles broadly at him before his expression turns more somber. “The other girls still treating her poorly?”

 

Barnum sighs. “I don't know why it seems to be an absolute of the upper classes that children must take on their parents' prejudices and antipathy toward anything novel or unusual.” Before Phillip can respond he quickly amends, “Present company excluded, of course.”

 

Phillip gives him a small smile before tilting his head. “And Charity, too.”

 

“So, two, out of...” Barnum turns to the entrance, gestures at the crowd gathered inside, “how many?”

 

Phillip looks past Barnum's outstretched hand, to the light spilling out the elegant French doors. “They aren't all that terrible. They're trapped in a system that won't let them be anything more, that punishes divergence and ostracizes...the unconventional.” He lets Barnum examine him for a moment before continuing, “Most of all I think they're scared, PT.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“Of what stepping out of that system could cost them.” Phillip looks skyward. “And I certainly can't fault them for that fear.”

 

Barnum huffs, turning to brace his back against the nearby brick ledge. “I don't much mind being a target of their derision anymore, Phillip, but when it's my family...”

 

“You'd do anything for your family.” Phillip leans against the stone next to him.

 

“Yes. Attend one unbearable gala after another...”

 

“Buy boxes of ballet slippers...”

 

“Pretend to be interested in Mr. Cooke's interminable stories...”

 

“Leave your daft partner in charge of the show so you can attend another recital...”

 

“Run into a burning building...”

 

Phillip shoots him a long look for that one, finally counters, “Trust your daughter to navigate some of her difficulties on her own?”

 

Barnum returns his glare. “Rich coming from you, tonight. Where did you find a bouquet that ridiculous, anyway?”

 

“PT, I do own half a circus. Besides, I said _some_ of her difficulties.”

 

“True.” Barnum pushes away from the ledge, turns to regard Phillip, feeling a smile tug at the edges of his mouth and crease his eyes. “And did you see the look on Caroline's face?”

 

“I did.”

 

Barnum drops his large hands onto Phillip's shoulders. “And the look on those other girls' faces? Natalie and...Madeline? The brunette?”

 

“Eliza's the brunette. _Margaret_ is the blonde.”

 

Barnum moves his hands to Phillip's cheeks. “And the look on their parents' faces?”

 

“Yes, although Mr. Forepaugh's expression was somewhat disconcerting...”

 

“You were simply... _sensational_.” And Barnum tugs Phillip forward to plant the largest, sloppiest kiss on the younger man's forehead.

 

“Jesus, PT!” Phillip flails ineffectively at Barnum's hands as the other man leans back. He stills after a few seconds, hands loosely encircling Barnum's wrists. “You think Caroline and Helen liked their gifts?”

 

“No,” Barnum grins at Phillip's endearingly perpetual search for reassurance, “I daresay they _loved_ their gifts.” He waits a moment. “But they would have been just as happy if you came empty-handed.” He can't see Phillip blush in the dim light on the terrace, but he's certain he can feel the younger man's cheeks heat under his palms. He holds his hands there for a moment longer before finally releasing his grip.

 

“Well,” he adds, “ _almost_ as happy.”

 

Phillip chuckles as they make their way back to the hall. “Does this mean I'm forgiven for leaving you to your own devices at the Mayor's campaign dinner last week?”

 

“You mean for abandoning me in that nest of vipers? Absolutely not. I'll ensure you're seated by Mr. Forepaugh for the next one.”

 

“Mr. Barnum, you are an unspeakably cruel scoundrel.”

 

“Guilty as charged." Barnum throws an arm around Phillip's shoulders. "Now, let's see how extravagant Caroline's story has gotten. Takes after her father, that one.”

 

“Poor thing,” Phillip murmurs. 

 

“Speak of the devil, there's Mr. Forepaugh. Shall we ask his opinion on the inevitable societal decline that will be ushered in by the widespread use of Mr. Edison's phonograph?”

 

“I mean, how lovely.”

 

Barnum follows his partner's gaze to where Caroline, now at center in the circle of young ballerinas, is carefully dispersing blossoms from her preposterous bouquet to the other girls, then looks back at Phillip with a grin.

 

“How lovely indeed.”

 

 

 


	5. Follow the Bridges You've Crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip pulls a Barnum. Barnum pulls Phillip back.

Phineas Taylor Barnum may have never learned what was happening if Phillip hadn't left town for a few days.

 

It's an unexpected request on Phillip's part; God knows (as does PT Barnum) the young man spends almost all his waking (and some sleeping) hours either at the circus or about town on related work. So when Phillip asks – asks, Barnum thinks, even though the younger man owns half the show – if Barnum would mind if he took a short personal trip, Barnum raises his eyebrows.

 

“Cousin Evelyn down in Washington has asked me to attend a farewell dinner for her son Gregory before he departs for University. Of course I won't be attending the larger family gathering this fall, but Evelyn has a soft spot for me, and poor Gregory has had nearly as many difficulties as I did meeting the family's expectations...” Phillip informs him, shuffling through the papers on his desk in their shared office.

 

Barnum blinks, can't stop a small smile from stealing across his face. He regards most of Phillip's family with the same level of disdain they probably feel toward Barnum himself, but he's pleased to hear Phillip has at least one family member who is also intelligent enough to make her own decisions.

 

He wonders about this Gregory, wants to ask if he's like Phillip was at that age, wants to ask what Phillip was like at that age: young enough to still see the world with promise, or had years under his father's roof already wrenched most of the wonder from him?

 

He settles instead for, “Of course. Maybe see if you can find any interesting new acts while you're down there? I hear the Capitol is full of clowns...” at which Phillip shakes his head, smiling, before returning to the work before him.

 

So he is by himself in his office at the circus a few weeks later, wondering if he can convince Lettie to begin her first number from atop one of the elephants, when the telegram arrives from the bank.

 

He shoots from his office, scattering Constantine and Charles and WD as he charges through the tent where they are rehearsing.

 

“Barnum, what's got your –” He dimly registers Lettie calling out from somewhere to his left.

 

“Nothing, keep practicing, we need this act flawless by next week!” He calls over his shoulder before he exits the tent, doesn't miss the concerned look Lettie and Constantine exchange. “I'll be back shortly.”

 

***

 

Barnum makes it to the bank in record time, fortunate enough to find a carriage driver who fancies himself an amateur harness racer. He deploys his not inconsiderable charisma and presence to get a meeting with the normally elusive accounts manager within minutes of arriving.

 

“What do you mean there isn't enough money in the account to complete this order?” He asks as soon as the lanky, bespectacled man takes a seat behind his desk.

 

“We mean, Mr. Barnum, that there are insufficient funds in the associated account at this time to fulfill the order that has been placed.”

 

“Yes, that's...” Barnum takes a moment to untangle the sentence, dismisses it as utterly unhelpful. “Insufficient funds...” he starts, thoughts only half-formed.

 

“Yes, is Mr. Carlyle not available? My understanding is that he usually handles these matters.”

 

“No, Mr. Carlyle is not available. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to _how_ there are insufficient funds? The circus is turning quite a profit, as I'm sure you are aware, Mr. Brooks.”

 

“Quite, Mr. Barnum,” the slight man sniffs. “However, _those_ funds have yet to be transferred into _this_ account.”

 

“How can that be? _This_ account is used to pay our commitments to various merchants, is it not?” Barnum rubs the bridge of his nose, cursing for a moment Cousin Evelyn and her independent thinking.

 

“Indeed it is, Mr Barnum,” the banker responds.

 

“And _my_ understanding is that funds are automatically transferred to the expense account after shares for Mr. Carlyle and myself have been withdrawn?” Barnum regrets not paying more attention when Phillip had outlined the circus's new finances to him; in his defense, he had been reviewing the choreography for the albino siblings' newest dance at the time.

 

“As I said, perhaps Mr. Carlyle should take care of this? This arrangement is at his direction, after all.”

 

“I'd rather resolve this presently, Mr. Brooks. I'm sure the bank can afford to tarry for a few days, but our animals cannot go that long without feed.”

 

“Yes, well, for a small fee, we can issue an expedited order to pay Smithwicks & Harp Distribution from the main account instead of the other expense account...”

 

“Wait.” Barnum brings his other hand up to rub at both of his temples. “What do you mean _other_ expense account?”

 

Mr. Brooks shoots him a patronizing stare and adjusts his glasses before pulling a large stack of documents out of the folder on his desk. “Shall we start from the beginning, Mr. Barnum?”

 

***

 

Barnum is sitting at his desk in the office, eyes burning a hole into the documents in front of him, when Phillip arrives in from the train station the next day.

 

“PT!” He calls in greeting, and Barnum spares a moment to look at him, notices the lightness in his step and the sun-kissed tint on his nose and cheeks.

 

“Phillip,” he replies levelly.

 

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Phillip asks as he deposits his case by his desk and removes his hat, oblivious to the glower on Barnum's face. “That new shipment of textiles come in yet?”

 

“No, not yet,” Barnum responds, fist clenching on top of the documents.

 

“Oh, well I'm sure it will be here...” Phillip pauses as he finally gets a good look at Barnum, “soon.” He shifts under Barnum's stare, catching the tension in the air. “Is...everything alright, PT?”

 

“It is now,” Barnum grinds out.

 

“But it wasn't before? Come on, PT, out with it,” Phillip cajoles, smiling nervously.

 

“No, it wasn't quite alright before. Or at least, it certainly wasn't what I thought it was.”

 

“What the devil are you on about, PT?” Phillip's smile evaporates, replaced by a look of confusion.

 

“What am _I_ on about, Phillip?” Barnum chuckles mirthlessly, picks up a document and holds it out toward Phillip. He sees Phillip take in the bank's seal at the bottom, and when Phillip makes to grab the form he pulls it out of the younger man's reach. “Had a very _enlightening_ conversation with Mr. Brooks at the bank while you were away.”

 

Phillip's outstretched hand falls to his side. “Oh?” He asks, fingers twitching.

 

“Yes. Perhaps you would like to tell me why there was no money in the account we've been using to pay the feed distributor? And the textile merchants? And the lumberyard, for that matter?”

 

“PT, look...” Phillip begins, before Barnum rolls over him.

 

“Or, Phillip, perhaps you'd care to tell me why that's the account where your shares of the show are going?”

 

“Oh,” Phillip replies, realizing he's been completely caught out.

 

“Let me see if I have this right, _partner._ ” Barnum stands up from his desk, comes around to lean back against it. “You told me that we were collecting all the circus profits, paying out our obligations through the expense account, and then dividing the remainder between our individual accounts. Fifty-fifty.”

 

“Well yes, PT, that's the general arrangement–” Phillip starts.

 

“Then, pray tell, Phillip, why exactly are some of the payments that are _supposed_ to be coming from our expense account coming out of _your_ account instead?”

 

“PT...” Phillip says, then falls silent.

 

“Damn it, Phillip, why on earth didn't you _tell_ me?” And Barnum fully appreciates the irony that _he_ is the one asking that question.

 

Phillip sighs, tries to deflect. “What didn't get paid?”

 

“The feed distributors.” Barnum grants him that answer, at least. “I had the bank send an emergency payment from the _actual_ expense account. Fees on that were no pretty penny, I can tell you that.”

 

“Damn it.” Phillip looks up at the ceiling before returning his gaze to Barnum.

 

“It was stupid, Phillip. It was...” He shakes his head. “Well, I'm not often in the position of criticizing someone else for taking a foolish risk.” He sighs at Phillip's impenetrable expression. “We can't lose that contract with Smithwicks & Harp! We can't afford any of the other suppliers here in the city, and the animals need to be fed –”

 

“Well we didn't lose it!” Phillip finally interrupts Barnum. He takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry about the fees, I'll cover those.”

 

“Missing the point here, Phillip.” Barnum growls at him. “And perhaps I can guess, but you still haven't told me why I'm getting _my_ full share of the profits, and you are using _your_ share to pay off expenses that you're not responsible for.”

 

“I don't know why _you're_ so upset,” Phillip snaps at him.

 

“I don't know why _you_ don't trust me. This is _our_ show, remember? All the grief you've given me about what a partnership is supposed to be...”

 

“I _trust_ you, PT.”

 

“Well this is a damned odd way to show it!” Barnum pauses to exhale forcefully, reconsiders. “So you thought you'd leave me with the lion's share, and hope I wouldn't notice?” He frowns. “Or care?” When the younger man says nothing, he continues, voice low, “You lied to me, Phillip.”

 

“I...well...yes, but...” Phillip scowls. “You have a family, PT.”

 

Barnum is taken aback by the seeming non sequitur, mind whirling as he finally slots all the pieces together. “Yes, I do.” _And nothing raises a man's fury quite like his family._ “And Charity and the girls are perfectly capable of getting by on a little less.” A point of pride for him now, after the fact, rather than a shortcoming to be be papered over and concealed from view.

 

“Maybe, but they shouldn't have to,” Phillip says quietly.

 

“Well, they will,” Barnum counters, anger returning, though he's not sure at what it's directed. “I had Mr. Brooks adjust our payment scheme. To the one you _and_ I agreed on.”

 

“Yeah...PT...” Phillip trails off, slumping against the desk behind him.

 

“You're an idiot, Phillip.” Phillip raises his eyebrows, snaps his mouth shut.

 

Barnum continues, “If you think this was a good idea, or I would never find out...or that I would be pleased if I did. Heaven knows I don't have the best track record with money, but I still...I still thought you would trust me despite it.”

 

“This isn't about trust, PT –”

 

“Yes, it is. Did you think I wouldn't want to know? Or that I would be pleased with this arrangement? I'd hoped you held me in higher regard than that.”

 

“No, I didn't think you...I just...”

 

“Thought that you knew better than I what _our_ arrangement should be?”

 

“Maybe,” Phillip finally concedes, and Barnum's heart sinks.

 

He can't quite come up to a response to that yet, turns to another question that has been nagging at him. “But why wasn't there enough money for this order? It's the same every month, and I gather now that this...arrangement...has been working for some time.”

 

“Oh, right,” Phillip laughs joylessly. “Those funds must have been too depleted after paying that tax assessment we weren't expecting last month. Normally I check on these things regularly, but with my travels I just got...”

 

“Distracted?” Barnum offers. Phillip shrugs. “And _you_ paid the...no matter. Of course you did.” He looks at the floor between them for a moment. “I really don't know what to say, Phillip.”

 

“I don't either.”

 

“'Sorry' might be a start.”

 

“Damn it, PT, of course I'm sorry, this whole mess...”

 

“You were...trying to look out for the people you care about.” And it hits Barnum like a hammer, that impulse with which he is intimately familiar. He thinks of his wonder when Charity, the oddities, Phillip, forgave the far worse troubles he caused in his misguided efforts to do the same, decides he can do no less.

 

“I get it, Phillip, I do. Still fairly angry about it, but...” he chuckles honestly this time, shaking his head. “I understand. I really do.”

 

Phillip peers at him from behind lowered lashes. Barnum can tell he is debating leaving it there, maybe wondering if he can make it out the door before Barnum could catch him, but Phillip is no coward, so the younger man straightens up to look at his partner head on.

 

“I'm sorry, PT.”

 

“Never do something like that again,” Barnum warns.

 

“I won't.” Phillip still looks like he's bracing for a blow, and Barnum feels his remaining anger cool off enough for exasperation and – loathe though he is to admit it – endearment to take its place. He pushes off from his desk to step in front of Phillip, catches the younger man's wary look.

 

He reaches out to wrap his arms around Phillip and pulls him in, resting his chin atop the shorter man's head. “You are, without a doubt, the worst apprentice I've ever had.”

 

“I _was_ the worst apprentice you ever had,” Phillip mumbles into Barnum's shoulder as he fists his hands in the back of the other man's waistcoat, “Now I'm the worst _partner_ you've ever had.”

 

Barnum has no counter to that, just huffs his assent into Phillip's hair. “Well, we should probably put in an appearance with the performers. I'm sure they're wondering what we've been yelling about in here.”

 

“Make sure they know we haven't killed each other?”

 

“Make sure Lettie knows _I_ didn't kill _you_. Fairly certain she'd dump me in the tiger enclosure if she thought I did so much as upset one of your perfectly coiffed hairs.”

 

“Where did you find her again?” Phillip wonders.

 

“I followed my keen showman's sense to a laundry in The Bowery,” Barnum brags.

 

“Are there any more like her there?” Phillip asks hopefully.

 

“No, one of a kind, that one.” Barnum grins. “Just like the rest of us.” He thumps Phillip's back hard enough to make the younger man grunt. “Just like the rest of us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes good people do dumb things for the right reasons. And I like it when characters who are adults actually act like it and try to collect more information about a situation rather than making assumptions, going off half-cocked, and doing something even dumber. 
> 
> It's hard to explain a convoluted financial arrangement through dialogue alone. Hopefully the details were clear. 
> 
> I claim no expertise in the banking rules and regulations of the 1800s.


	6. Allow the Love and Help that Comes Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip tries to put the pieces together. Barnum tries to keep everything else together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The grand finale. A bit heavier than previous chapters. Nothing too egregious, but warnings in the end notes if you are concerned.

Phillip Carlyle does not remember much from those days. That is a blessing. Phineas Taylor Barnum remembers far too much.

 

Afterwards, Phillip is not certain if what he can recall is from his own memories, or from the recollections of others that his mind interprets, examines, paints into a story. But he does remember this, clear as water.

 

* * *

 

He wakes with mouth tasting of sawdust and head feeling like it's hosting a rehearsal of the percussionists in the circus band. His mind, out of practice now but still conditioned by years of experience, instantly supplies the conclusion _hangover._ Then he reconsiders, remembers leaving his office well past midnight again last night and coming straight home to collapse in his bed.

 

As Phillip moans into his pillow he dimly registers he hasn't even bothered to change out of his clothes or get under the covers. He debates doing nothing, maybe just pulling a blanket over his head to block out the morning sun streaming from the window he forgot to curtain shut last night. But then he recalls the stacks of paperwork he still hasn't gotten through, and that PT will be out most of the morning, giving him an excellent chance to work free of the showman's entertaining but distracting presence.

 

So, with another groan, ignoring the way his vision dims at the edges for a moment as he levers himself upright, Phillip sets off to the circus.

 

The lot is mostly empty as Phillip approaches the towering tents. The show is on winter hiatus after the holidays – January's bitter frost too much for the tent, the performers, and the animals – and most of the employees are taking advantage of the well-deserved break to visit family or get out of the city. Phillip nods a greeting to the few maintenance workers and grooms he sees as he makes his way to the small office situated behind the big top.

 

Phillip blearily unlocks the door, leaning against the doorjamb for a moment before he shuffles in. The room is freezing and he slowly sets about starting a fire in the cast iron stove. He stares at the flames for long minutes before standing up, catching himself on PT's ridiculously ornate desk. He looks wearily at the stack of papers on his own desk, then longingly to the plush divan in the corner that PT had demanded they get some time ago after finding Phillip asleep on the office floor, coat bunched under his head, for the fifth morning in two weeks.

 

Phillip figures he has some time before PT comes in – something about a meeting with the girls' instructors, he thinks – and blesses the showman's insistence as he sinks into the soft cushions, telling himself he'll just close his eyes for a minute or two.

 

He is, of course, awakened by the sound of PT shutting the office door behind him later that morning. PT smiles at him as he strolls in, sliding out of his heavy winter coat.

 

“Phillip!” The man beams. Phillip blinks at him groggily. PT's smile slides as he approaches his partner, taking in the red-rimmed eyes and sallow complexion. “How are you?”

 

“M'fine. How was your meeting with...umm...”

 

“Headmistress Isakov? Excellent. Caroline's absences for ballet lessons are not affecting her marks, and she says Helen's grasp of the physical sciences is remarkable for her age!”

 

“S'good. Gets her intelligence from her mother.”

 

Barnum scoffs. “And her looks from her father.” He takes out his pocket watch. “Speaking of meetings, we have that appointment with the rail car manufacturer today...”

 

“Oh,” Phillip replies woozily, “right.” He closes his eyes, bracing to hoist himself from the divan, when he feels PT's palm pressing down on his chest.

 

“Maybe you should sit this one out,” the older man tells him, brow furrowed. “You don't look well, Phillip.”

 

“M'fine,” Phillip repeats, but makes no move to dislodge PT's hand.

 

“Truly, Phillip. I can take care of this. Besides, they'd take one look at you and send for Miss Nightingale,” PT jokes, failing to completely obscure his concern.

 

Phillip peers at the other man for a moment. “Fine,” he relents, able to tell even through his daze that PT is surprised by his easy acquiescence.

 

“I'll be back by the afternoon.” PT straightens up from the divan. “Try to get some rest.”

 

“Try to resist buying the whole railway,” Phillip replies as he closes his eyes.

 

Phillip hears PT feed another log into the stove before grabbing his coat, calling out as he closes the door behind him, “Goodnight sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

 

“S'right after Hamlet _dies_ , PT,” he says to the empty room.

 

* * *

 

This next he also remembers, but blurred around the edges, a reflection in a still pond.

 

He does not wake up when PT enters the office this time. Instead, he slowly returns to consciousness with PT's hands on his shoulders. The taller man is looking down at him, one corner of his mouth turning up as Phillip opens his eyes.

 

“There you are,” he says. “You really don't look well, Phillip.”

 

“Mmmph.” All Phillip can muster in response.

 

PT leans in close, raises a hand to Phillip's forehead. It's somehow both wonderfully warm and blissfully cool.

 

“Christ, Phillip. We need to get you home.”

 

“Mmhmm.” PT slides an arm under the younger man's back to pull him upright. Phillip sits with elbows on knees, pulse thundering in his ears while PT collects their outer garments. PT hauls him to his feet and props him against the nearby desk as he helps Phillip into his coat.

 

“How long have you been feeling this poorly, Phillip?”

 

“S'jus t'day. Hmm...yest'rday...M'nday?”

 

“Ah, very helpful, thank you.” He wraps an arm around Phillip's back to lead him to the nearest street and hail a carriage. Phillip leans against the other man, investing all his energy and concentration into placing one foot in front of the other.

 

Then there is the carriage ride, the feel of PT's wool coat under Phillip's cheek, the way everything from his knees to his spine to his jaw aches every time they hit a rough spot, how his skull throbs in time with his heartbeat, and PT's low, soothing tones, though he can't pick out the words. PT's voice is the last thing he remembers for long time.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, when attempting to reconstruct his memories, he sees this too. But only tenuously, like trying to make out the image of river rocks through the rushing current.

 

Awakening, eyes closed at first, in dim, gray daylight. Takes him a while to come to himself. His limbs, lungs, eyes, head, feel heavy. His joints ache. Opens his eyes, blinks to clear away the grit.

 

Vision comes into focus. PT is asleep beside him on top of his coverlet. But no, not his coverlet. Not his bed, not his room. Recognizes the guest room in the Barnum home.

 

Looks over again to PT, flat on his back, breathing quietly. Blinks a few times, utterly confused.

 

“P– ” His throat clogs, tongue impossibly heavy in his mouth. He coughs, once, twice, clears his throat. Tries again.

 

“PT.” Better. Still hoarse and faint. PT snuffles, eyes closed, then reaches an arm over to pat Phillip's chest.

 

“S'alright, Phillip. You're fine. S'safe. You're alright.” PT falls silent, stills.

 

Phillip rolls cautiously onto his side. Gets a better look at the older man, tries again. Registers just before the name gets out how worn PT looks. Shadows like bruises under his eyes, skin too tight across his cheeks, stubble too pronounced. Thinks he should let the man sleep as he calls him awake.

 

“PT?” Too late.

 

PT's eyes fly open. Blink. He huffs, looks at Phillip. Blinks again. Levers himself to his side to face Phillip, eyes wide, before the next blink.

 

“Phillip?” He rasps. Opens and closes his mouth. “Phillip!”

 

Phillip looks at him. Isn't yet cognizant enough to voice his questions. PT gets there first.

 

“Phillip. You're awake? How are you feeling? Do...do you know where you are? Do you remember... what happened? Do you...know who I am?” That last so soft, so hesitant, Phillip barely hears it.

 

“PT.” He runs out of steam, doesn't know what question to address first, doesn't realize he's already answered one.

 

“The one and only,” PT says, but the usual panache is absent. “And now, one at a time. How...how are you feeling, Phillip?”

 

Phillip's eyes flutter closed. Open again. “Uhh...tired?” Doesn't realize it shouldn't take so much effort to answer that.

 

A weak smile from PT. “Well, that's to be expected.” He examines Phillip before continuing. “Do you know where you are?”

 

“Your home.” An answer Phillip has more confidence in. Gives him the confidence to ask a question of his own. “PT...what...what happened?”

 

PT sucks in a shaky breath. Turns the question around. “What do you remember, Phillip?”

 

Phillip takes a minute. “I...you...brought me here?” Not a real answer, but PT treats it like gold.

 

“Yes, that's right. What else?”

 

But Phillip has given enough, is awake enough, to insist. “What happened, PT? Why...am I here?”

 

Regrets it when PT's face just _breaks_. Furrows carved between his misting eyes get impossibly deep. PT takes a breath, then another, before responding, “You're. You've...Phillip, you've been ill.”

 

That last word wears a world of meaning. Phillip swallows it, lets it roll about in his stomach, his lungs, before giving it back.

 

“Ill?”

 

“Yes.” PT takes another uneven breath. “For...a while.”

 

“How long?” Fear and confusion and _hurt_ make him demanding.

 

“Long enough.” But PT is made staunch by the same.

 

“I...” Phillip's vehemence leaves him as quickly as it came. “Oh.” His eyes, dry and sore, close again. “I see.”

 

He's rewarded for his capitulation when a large hand comes up to cradle his cheek, opens his eyes to PT, sees his own utter exhaustion reflected back at him.

 

“The important thing is that you're awake now, Phillip. That's the important thing...” PT's voice catches in his throat.

 

“That's...” PT's unable to finish this time, and were Phillip any less spent, any less lost, he might be surprised to see sparse tears sliding from the other man's eyes. And were he less weary, less adrift, Phillip thinks later, he would have summoned up a witty but meaningful comment, would have clapped a hand to his partner's shoulder.

 

But he is all those things, and wrecked besides to see PT brought this low, so he shifts closer, presses his forehead to PT's chest. Gingerly extracts an arm from the bed linens and wraps it around the other man's waist.

 

He hears PT's breath hitch a few times before the showman gets his own arm around Phillip's back, pulls him in tight, drops his chin to the top of the younger man's head. Phillip rests there, feels the rhythm of PT's chest even out, slow down, deepen, then sighs and follows the other man into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Phineas Taylor Barnum is not so fortunate. He remembers everything.

 

Barnum can recall his bemusement as he first takes in the image of his partner asleep on the divan in their office (just long enough for Phillip to stretch out on; it only works for Barnum if he props his feet over the edge). How endearing he finds the sight before he gets a closer look at Phillip, and though at first he wishes the younger man had just stayed home, later (much later) he believes Phillip's pernicious dedication to being at the circus a blessing in disguise.

 

He is honestly so engaged in his meeting with the rail car makers, so enraptured with the idea of PT Barnum's Traveling Circus and Menagerie, that he spares hardly a thought for his absent partner. When he returns to the office, however, sees how rapidly Phillip's condition has deteriorated, how hot the young man's forehead feels to the touch, his excitement shades to concern. When he realizes how difficult it is for Phillip to walk the scant yards to the street, how painful the carriage ride to the Barnum home is for the other man as he descends into incoherence, that concern turns to fear.

 

When the procession of doctors ( _quacks and conmen_ , he tells Charity; _they're doing their best_ , she tells him) delivers diagnoses more dire with every visit, that fear ascends into abject dread. He sniffs dubiously at the tinctures and tonics the doctors provide, decides he would rather use most of them to clean the lion pens than force them down Phillip's unresisting throat.

 

So begins his long vigil. His family's vigil, that in his darker moments he believes can only slide into sitting shiva.

 

In the daylight, when Charity sits with him, and especially when Helen and Caroline do, he paints on his showman's surety and says he knows Phillip will get better, just a matter of time, because he is young and proud and strong.

 

At night, when he sits just outside the faint light cast by the lamp above Phillip's sickbed (not deathbed, _no_ ) his confidence abandons him. Instead of thinking, he counts shapes in the shadows, stars in the sky. Phillip's breaths.

 

He recalls another vigil, its focus a man larger than Phillip in truth, made even larger through the prism of childhood and the light of distant memory. He can vaguely recollect an even older observance, father hovering over the pale, fading figure of his mother after the midwife leaves the room with a shrouded baby brother born silent and still.

 

Then, after he spends a gray day at the window watching lifeless tree limbs shaking furiously at the clouds, the wind flurrying sparse snowflakes up in thin streams, the pale specter of a nearly new moon scraping across white-topped roofs, and thinks that he needs faith for the same reason it's so hard to find, he sets himself down on the bed bedside Phillip, and sleeps.

 

And then, they wake.

 

* * *

 

And then, there is Phillip, again. Eager to get out of that bed, that room, though it takes several more days before he is able. Less is the time before he is walking the paths around the Barnum residence, either with Charity's elbow in his, or Barnum's hand at the small of his back. He is itching to get back to the circus not long after; Barnum appeases him for a week with the paperwork on which they have fallen dismally behind.

 

Barnum reminds himself to be grateful for what he has when a late winter night finds the two of them in front of the fire in the drawing room, reviewing plans for the show's spring opening. He tells himself not to be bitter about the world coming so close to taking something precious from him again, not to be bitter about it taking so much from him so very many years ago.

 

He tells himself to forgive the doctors who instilled such fear in him just weeks (seasons, decades, eons) ago. Under that is a deeper hurt, scarred over by years of full life, the faint ache left by medicine men who were unwilling to help a poor tailor and his boy.

 

He can forgive that now, looking at Phillip's face in the firelight, still too pale and hollow by half, but regaining color from the weak winter sun, and fullness from the meals that Charity watches him eat like a hawk and the pastries Mrs. Astley from next door insists on delivering, having been completely charmed months ago by the young man.

 

* * *

 

What Barnum cannot forgive, what will fill him with incandescent rage for a very long time, is the utter silence he receives in response to his increasingly dire telegrams to the Carlyle estate outlining Phillip's condition, his decline, the poor prognosis from most of the physicians.

 

He doesn't ask them for anything: not assistance or money, or their presence at their son's sickbed, not even prayers and well wishes, so he shouldn't be surprised that without a specific outline of actions any self-respecting, decent parent should take, they are incapable of doing anything at all.

 

He is beyond shocked then, when leaving yet another meeting at the Mayor's Office shortly before the show reopens, he hears a clear, cultured voice call out, “Mr. Barnum?” He turns before he can even register its familiarity.

 

And there, poised primly just beyond the steps leading into City Hall, is Phillip's mother. Decorum would dictate Barnum tip his cap to her, at the very least acknowledge her with a “Mrs. Carlyle,” but Barnum, the consummate showman who is almost never without a witty rejoinder or clever turn of phrase, is stunned into silence and inaction by this utterly unusual situation.

 

He can only stare at the older woman for a moment before registering just how peculiar these circumstances are: Mrs. Carlyle, a women of considerable means and status, without her husband or any other escort – sisters, cousins, confidants, even a maid – has been waiting outside a building housing the most powerful figures in the city and is now fully visible speaking with a man who considers being called 'depraved' a high compliment.

 

Seeing she will get no response from Barnum, she soldiers on, “I understand Phillip is convalescing nicely at your home?”

 

Barnum wants to scream. Wants to shake her so hard her perfectly placed, obviously expensive, imported hat flies off her hair onto the marble steps. Wants to smack her across the face, though he has never been a man to resort to violence if given any other option, let alone the type of man who would strike a woman. Wants so very badly to shout in her face that Phillip is well now – though he certainly wasn't for those long days and endless nights, delirious and shivering in a borrowed bed as Barnum hunched over him, elbows on the coverlet, not sure if he should weep or pray – but that if she or her husband should try to verify this for themselves in person Barnum will tear them apart with his bare hands.

 

Barnum will afterwards be glad it was not Mr. Carlyle waiting for him, knows with absolute certainty that if the dour man had been standing on the steps that day Barnum would have by evening been in a jail cell.

 

But all the things Barnum wants to say, aches to do, he resists. Not for his sake; he is far beyond caring how the Carlyles, or their friends, or even the scurrying bureaucrats in City Hall, would judge him, but he cannot bring one more difficulty, one more hardship, upon Phillip. So he says nothing.

 

“Phillip is well, then?” Mrs. Carlyle attempts again.

 

Barnum finally deigns to acknowledge her. “Yes, he is.”

 

“I am...glad to hear that, Mr. Barnum.” Barnum says nothing. She steels herself and presses forward. “I wonder if you could...that is, if you might be willing to...” Barnum says nothing, can see her gaze drop to where his knuckles are shaking from clenching his cane too hard.

 

“I wonder if you would tell him...” Barnum can keep his silence no longer.

 

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Carlyle,” _To hell with_ _you and your pardon,_ “but if you would like to get a message to your son, you are perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”

 

To her credit, Mrs. Carlyle holds her ground, meets his stare evenly. “You judge me, Mr. Barnum, for not paying him a visit while he was ill.”

 

“I judge you for ignoring him while he might have been _dying_.” At that her gaze finally drops.

 

“I shouldn't have to explain to you, Mr. Barnum, that family is complicated.”

 

“Yes, it is. But I would do anything for _my_ family, Mrs. Carlyle. There is nothing complicated about that.”

 

“I told myself that too for a very long time, Mr. Barnum.” He is surprised by Mrs. Carlyle's sad smile, firmly tells himself he sees nothing of Phillip in it. “But life has a way of exposing us to be less than we wish we were.”

 

Barnum stares at her for a long moment. “Life is an opportunity to show ourselves to be more than we think we are.” Mrs. Carlyle gathers herself, starts to walk away.

 

“I'm not going to deliver any messages for you, Mrs. Carlyle.” Barnum calls after her. “But should you decide to deliver a message yourself, I won't stop you.” Mrs. Carlyle stops in her tracks, stands still for a moment before nodding without looking back at Barnum, then walks into the sunlight of the crowded street and disappears.

 

* * *

 

Barnum mulls the encounter over in his mind the entire trip back. He steps into his home, hears Charity and the girls and Phillip in the kitchen as he hangs up his coat and hat. Phillip comes out as Barnum walks down the hall.

 

“How did your meeting go?” Phillip asks him.

 

“Meeting?” Barnum freezes, wonders what to tell Phillip about his conversation with the younger man's mother, how Phillip even knows.

 

“Yes, meeting. At the Mayor's Office? Were you even there? I knew I shouldn't have let you talk me into letting you go alone...”

 

_Yes, at the Mayor's Office_ , Barnum thinks. “Well, be glad you weren't.” The showman always lands on his feet. “While I was waiting, I ran into your favorite septuagenarian!”

 

“How _is_ Mr. Forepaugh these days?”

 

“Devastated by the passage of the Bland-Allison Act. Asked after you.”

 

“And what did you tell him?”

 

“That you would be contagious for months, at least.”

 

“PT!” Phillip just laughs and rolls his eyes. Barnum beams at the sound.

 

“Now, what did you make me for dinner?” He throws an arm around Phillip's shoulders.

 

“Roast duck, winter greens, and glazed carrots.”

 

“And _you_ made all this?” He bends his head closer to Phillip's.

 

“Well, I helped.”

 

“You helped?”

 

“I put the pan in the oven.” Barnum's turn to laugh.

 

“Well we had better get back in there, God only knows how they're getting on without you.”

 

Phillip shifts to look up at Barnum. “But the meeting at the Mayor's Office, it did go well? We're all set for the opening next month?”

 

“Yes, the meeting was fine. Finally got into the Mayor's actual office, too. You know there's a fantastic view from that room? A man could get used to that...”

 

Phillip raises his eyebrows. “Oh, don't tell me you've got even higher ambitions now, PT. Though I suppose that office is an excellent entrée into money and power...”

 

Barnum is silent for a moment, listening to his wife and daughters laugh as they make a mess of his kitchen, looking at the light-filled, full home around him, feeling Phillip's warmth along his side and under his arm: living, breathing, proof that he has wealth beyond measure. He steers the younger man into the kitchen, where Helen and Caroline are preparing to set the table as Charity, unaided, pulls the duck from the oven.

 

“Actually, Phillip, the view from here is even better. Just... _sensational._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious illness (nothing explicit), brief mention of stillbirth, reference to canon character death 
> 
> ***
> 
> Thank you for making it through to the end of this fic! I hope you enjoyed reading it - I certainly enjoyed writing it. Please let me know if you have any thoughts. See you next time!


End file.
